


don't you ever tame your demons (but always keep 'em on a leash)

by wtfrenchtoast



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom!Bucky, Dark!Bucky, Flashbacks, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Top!Bucky, bottom!Steve, creepy voyeur bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 05:39:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3638841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtfrenchtoast/pseuds/wtfrenchtoast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been months. Months of following every cockeyed, harebrained lead that falls into their laps. It doesn't slip Sam's notice that despite every attempt to show otherwise, Steve's resolve quietly weakens each time they come up empty-handed. When he thinks Sam isn't looking, Steve stares off into space just a little longer, lays awake in bed a little later.</p><p>"Just let it run its course," Natasha sighs over the phone on a balmy summer night. "Let him scour the planet 'til he drops and he realizes that it won't do any good. You don't just stumble on the Winter Soldier in a Kmart or something." </p><p>"Yeah, maybe you and I know that." Sam casts a furtive glance at Steve, who's hunched over a Stark-issue tablet, studying a map intently. </p><p>"He will, too. Just give him long enough to figure it out on his own." </p><p>Right. "I think you underestimate the man's endurance," Sam murmurs dryly. </p><p>"I never underestimate." </p><p>He lets out a long, drawn-out breath. “I might have agreed with you. Maybe somewhere around St. Louis, or Wichita. But let me tell you somethin’ – now that I’ve seen Albuquerque in all its glory? Let’s just say I’m a tough sell.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't you ever tame your demons (but always keep 'em on a leash)

**Author's Note:**

> Writing this was way, way too much fun. Which probably also explains why it's completely un-beta'd (wince). 
> 
> Song title from Hozier.

// my peace has always depended

on all the ashes in my wake //

 

It's been months. Months of following every cockeyed, harebrained lead that falls into their laps. It doesn't slip Sam's notice that despite every attempt to show otherwise, Steve's resolve quietly weakens each time they come up empty-handed. When he thinks Sam isn't looking, Steve stares off into space just a little longer, lays awake in bed a little later.

 

"Just let it run its course," Natasha sighs over the phone on a balmy summer night. "Let him scour the planet 'til he drops and he realizes that it won't do any good. You don't just stumble on the Winter Soldier in a Kmart or something."

 

"Yeah, maybe you and I know that." Sam casts a furtive glance at Steve, who's hunched over a Stark-issue tablet, studying a map intently.

 

"He will, too. Just give him long enough to figure it out on his own."

 

Right. "I think you underestimate the man's endurance," Sam murmurs dryly.

 

"I never underestimate."

 

He lets out a long, drawn-out breath. “I might have agreed with you. Maybe somewhere around St. Louis, or Wichita. But let me tell you somethin’ – now that I’ve seen Albuquerque in all its glory? Let’s just say I’m a tough sell.”

 

He can hear the smirk in her voice as she wishes him a good night.

 

He pops over to Steve’s room to let the other man know that he was gonna call it a night. Steve barely acknowledges him, too engrossed in the contents of several file folders strewn across the bed. Sam regards him for a long moment with something like concern that Steve chooses not to notice.

 

"Alright, man. Listen, can you do me one favor?"

 

Steve reluctantly nods.

 

"Take a shower, will ya?"

 

* * *

 

The steam obscures most of the view from the Soldier's perch. Through the foggy glass he can barely make out a broad-shouldered silhouette, a white swath where the towel wraps around his hips.

 

The southwestern heat isn’t friendly to a metal prosthetic. He keeps to the evenings; even seasoned residents don’t wear hoodies and sweatshirts in the broiling summers, and it attracts more attention than he can allow.

 

It’s seventeen minutes and thirty-four seconds before the window goes dark, and another twelve before the occupant’s breathing patterns resemble REM sleep.

 

The Soldier’s resources are low. His last bugs and tracking devices are hidden at various points around his subject’s motel room. His weapons are down to two small pistols and a paltry assortment of blades. If the subject turns aggressive, it’s in his interest to put some serious distance between them.

 

But in his silent, calculating mind, he knows that won’t happen.

 

Why he knows is a thorn in his side, a nagging question mark that won’t relent.

 

His movements are feline and effortless as he leaps and climbs to the concrete walkway outside of his target’s door; he doesn’t so much move as he flows. His skilled fingers pick the flimsy lock so deftly it makes no noise at all.

 

And he’s in. It takes only moments for his eyes to adjust to the thick, pervasive blackness. He pauses; the soft snoring only feet in front of him confirm that he remains undetected.

 

He approaches the slumbering figure tangled in a mess of sheets and scratchy coverlets cautiously. Blonde hair, spiky and tufted, pokes out in every direction. The brow is relaxed and unburdened. So peaceful.

 

Always looks that way when he's passed out and don't got the weight of the world pressin' down on his shoulders -

 

It happens more and more, now. His brain slowly unscrambling, relearning itself. The first handful of times it happened it left him shaking in a cold sweat. But as the pieces slowly work themselves into place, it startles him less frequently.

 

His eyes roam over the carved cheekbones and rosebud lips, and he can feel his blood begin to race. Closer. He wants to be closer. He drags his fingertips along the covers and reaches out; stops just short of ghosting them over the exposed skin of his throat.

 

The Soldier wants to touch, and he doesn't know why.

 

His body seems to, though, by the way it pulls him steadily towards the other man. And he decides in that moment that he doesn't care if he's seen, or caught.

 

One knee comes to rest on the corner of the mattress, the motion gently rippling the rest of the bed. The Soldier takes a breath, and then he's face to face with piercing blue eyes, electric even in the nearly pitch-blackness.

 

For a moment he can do nothing but stare back. Unconsciously his left hand balls into a fist, and those eyes (those eyes, they don't miss nothin') take notice.

 

"You got unfinished business.” The subject’s voice is even, unafraid. After months of tracking, and more appropriately, being tracked, it’s as if he’s known all along that he was never the one doing the following.

 

The Soldier doesn’t answer, just remains solemn, illuminated only by a few stray beams of silvery moonlight. He’s not ready to give anything away, not yet.

 

The subject hoists himself up on his elbows, causing the thin bedsheet to slip downward, exposing the hard-chiseled planes of his bare chest. The Soldier’s breath catches in his throat. He drinks in the sight, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. He’s warm. All over, in a way he doesn’t immediately recognize.

 

He’s fixed with a deliberate, searching stare.

 

_“Stevie. Stevie, Stevie, baby, where’s the fire? We got all night,” he grins, decadent and alight with the prospect of hours upon hours to themselves._

 

_Steve chuckles. “I know, I know, Buck, I just can’t wait anymore.” Bucky’s t-shirt sails across the tiny room to join where his regulation pants and jacket are crumpled just as carelessly. Steve takes the opportunity to run his tongue from the base of Bucky’s throat all the way down, down, down. “Been waiting for weeks. Just want you.”_

_Stuttered moans are all the sergeant can manage as he feels himself slip through the sweet tight ring of his lover’s lips, deeper and deeper, until he nudges the back of Steve’s throat. A glance down rewards him with the filthy, delicious view of rumpled blonde hair bobbing up and down his rock-hard dick. “Don’t know how you kept it in your pants all that time, Rogers.”_

_“I thought about it,” Steve confesses. “Wanted to bend you over every chance I got, fuck what the team would say.” He goes right back to deep-throating Bucky’s dripping cock like he was made for it._

_Bucky’s hips thrust up involuntarily as Steve’s free hand starts to wander. “Did you-did you touch yourself? And think about it?”_

_He hears a low grumble from Steve’s chest before he lifts himself off with a pop. “Did I? Three, four times a day, always about you.” He tosses him a lopsided smile._

_Bucky places his hand over his heart in mock sentimentality. “Why, Steven. I think that’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever said to m-holy shit,” and his tune quickly changes as one slick fingertip sneaks inside the tight ring of his ass. “Some warning woulda b-been nice, you bastard.”_

_Steve shoots him a look that plainly says, “Who, me?” as he works Bucky open, takes him apart. “Spread your legs. Wider,” he orders, and the other man eagerly complies. Bucky’s rambling devolves quickly into strained grunts and whimpers as those long fingers sink deep into him._

_“You’re gonna fuck me, right?” he suddenly blurts out, panting. “Please say you’re gonna fuck me.” He nearly jumps out of his skin as Steve’s fingertips drag over his prostate. “Jesus Christ! Do that again.”_

_“You’re cute when you’re needy.” Something clatters to the floor beside them. Bucky glances around nervously, unable to quell the fear of drawing unwanted attention. “Relax. I told you we don’t gotta worry this time, and I meant it.”_

_“Sorry. Old habits die hard.”_

_“You just need to be distracted.” Bucky’s asshole is suddenly loose and empty when Steve promptly slides his fingers out, and he groans at the loss. But his attention is quickly diverted elsewhere when the bed shifts, and Steve’s towering over him on his knees, cock slicked up and impossibly hard. His mouth goes dry. “How’m I doin’ so far?” The smirk in his best friend’s voice is unmistakable._

_Wantonly Bucky spreads his legs further apart as Steve settles between them._

_He can’t help but wince. It’s a good, delicious burn, the kind that teeters between pleasure and pain oh so carefully. But Steve’s size isn’t easily accommodated; no matter how much one is prepared. His lips purse as he carefully exhales. Fingers curl around the rumpled sheets. God, it’s been weeks. Weeks. Back home – before the draft, before the war, he’d take Steve two or three times a day. The kid was so fucked-out he barely even needed anything to slick him up; he’d walk around for hours with load upon load of Bucky’s come leaking into his shorts._

 

_Later, when Steve put on about a foot in height and a hundred pounds of muscle and was physically capable of doing the fucking, Bucky discovered how much he really loved being split open. They didn’t have the luxury of any semblance of privacy, so they found themselves in run-down barns, thick patches of bushes, and one time a bombed-out wine cellar. It was the only warm, sunny moment in long months of blood and cold and noise._

 

He remembers now. A half-burned out hotel. France. The first time Steve’d had ever fucked him on a real bed.

 

_“Mouthy little shit. Wasn’t this mouthy when I was the one makin’ ya see stars, were ya? Got a chip on your shoulder along with that big cock of yours-“_

 

Bucky’s pants have long since tented out in the front and he makes no attempt to hide. He can’t. The sensations, long past, crash over him like a tidal wave, and they threaten to drag him under.

 

Steve continues to regard him, vigilant but no less tender. “How long you been following us?”

 

“An hour outside of Atlanta,” he answers without hesitation. “You weren’t exactly hiding.”

 

A grunt is his reply. "Sorry about Plano. Sam said he's eaten shrimp his whole life and never had a problem 'til now."

 

Bucky shrugs. "Should be apologizing to your upholstery."

 

Steve shakes his head sadly. "Yeah," he agrees. "The leather's toast, for sure." The conversation is deceptively light, the casual words floating above the roiling depths of what they stand at the precipice of.

 

The atmosphere seems to darken after that, as each man’s respective realities set in.

 

“So. I take it this isn’t a social call?” Steve offers, eyeing him carefully. Watching him like a spooked horse. No sudden movements.

 

Something sharp and white-hot flares up deep in Bucky's chest. Steve barely has time to blink before he's pinned to the bed, solid metal fingers wrapped firmly around his throat. Bucky can time his pulse by the way his jugular throbs under his grip.

 

He hesitates. Pale eyes dart around Steve's face, where Bucky's got him locked beneath his lithe body. Blue eyes, clear as day, regard his assailant calmly. Like they’re out to lunch, shooting the breeze.

 

For some reason this makes him furious. His eyes blaze. With a deep growl rumbling through his chest, he tightens his vise grip around the tender flesh. Steve’s handsome face flushes. He’s tense but he still makes no move to shove Bucky off.

 

This only fuels his rage. Fight me. Fight me. Prove my shattered mind wrong. Please. Because if I’m right…

 

Loss, gaping and sinister, waits below to swallow him whole.

 

“I’m gonna ask you this once.” His gray eyes are molten steel, deadly, and yet Steve’s expression is unchanged. “I remember…things. About you, and me. Together.” He speaks slowly, tasting each word as it falls from his lips. “Intimate.” He grits his teeth, wincing. “Are they real?”

 

Steve laughs. He laughs. It’s harsh and grating on Bucky’s ears. “Real?” he echoes, his voice bordering on watery, and Bucky gets a glimpse of the hysteria that lives behind Steve’s titanium gaze. He swallows hard. “What can I…what can I say that you’ll believe?” He chokes on it like he knows the answer. He does.

 

Bucky’s unwavering stare speaks for him.

 

A powerful hand trails upward, passing over where his ribs jut out a little too far for Steve’s comfort, he knows (but how does he know?). Warm fingers curl around the nape of Bucky’s neck, gently, so gently. Steve’s blonde brow furrows slightly.

 

Bucky cannot remember the last time he was asked permission for anything.

 

Carefully Steve rolls them over so he’s gazing reverently down at Bucky, his expression a kaleidoscope of joy, disbelief, sorrow, trepidation. The kiss that falls from his lips is feather-light. Bucky accepts it, lets himself melt into it, tracing long-dormant patterns in his mind, pieces interlocking as his memory surges to life: this.

 

The kiss burns through their bodies, morphing from tender to passionate in a few short, fiery seconds. The tip of Steve’s tongue teases tentatively between Bucky’s lips. It takes him a couple heartbeats to respond, to open himself to it, but he does, and with ten times the fervor. Bucky pulls Steve closer against his chest; he's still clad in his body armor, blocking him from the furnace of Steve's bare chest.

 

He wants to feel it. He wants every inch of it plastered to his skin. Let it burn through him ‘til he’s nothing but ashes.

 

When Bucky pulls back Steve's eyes fly open wide, anxious, like he’s expecting Bucky to flee. Instead, stringy chestnut hair rests back against the hotel pillow as nimble fingers, one half flesh and one half glinting sharply in the moonlight, work open the clasps and buckles over his chest. Steve can do nothing but watch, mesmerized. Thick layers of leather and Kevlar part to reveal expanses of skin that Steve instantly attends to with his tongue. He works his way down from Bucky’s Adam’s apple, taking his time, re-learning, reminding.

 

Images, watery and tenuous, push and tug at his fragile mind. He glances down to where thick, spiky blonde hair rests against his sternum; once upon a time there were floppy, side-parted locks in their place, bordered by a pair of narrow shoulders. The lips, though. They were the same. Full and pouty, much too pretty for Bucky to stand.

 

They seal themselves around one rosy nipple and tug gently. Bucky’s back bows as a stuttered groan tumbles from his throat. “May-maybe one day I can show you how much you love that.” Blue eyes peek shyly up from under long, dark lashes, and the breath rushes from Bucky’s lungs.

 

Steve continues to eke out a searing trail down Bucky’s abs with his lips and tongue. When he reaches the thick leather belt wrapped around his hips, he hesitates. "I-I want to…can I-"

 

"Yes." The word is out of Bucky’s mouth before he knows he spoke. The buckles and buttons and zippers nearly disintegrate between his fingers. Steve tugs Bucky's boxers over his hips, freeing the formidable erection that's been straining against the fabric.

 

It rushes back to him like a gust of strong wind. Stevie bent over him, unable to swallow him down too far due to his hair-trigger gag reflex. But he compensated by showering him with whatever attentions he can manage - suckling and licking around the head and the sensitive spot on the underside, using his hand to stroke the length he couldn't take into his mouth. Gobbling him like a starving man.

 

And oh, how he had loved to return the favor. On his knees for Captain America every chance he got, blowing him with expert precision. Steve would bite his fist so hard he’d draw blood trying not to cry out.

 

Steve noses around his lower belly, nuzzling the base of Bucky's leaking cock. "You smell the same," he says quietly, before his tongue slips out and licks a wide circle around the head.

 

He can't help himself, can't stifle the shuddering moan that seems to fill the entire room. Steve works his way down the length of Bucky's dick, enveloping him in the wet heat of his mouth, and now Bucky really can't hold back. Steve pins his hips to the mattress firmly, fucking his own face so deep he’s nosing against Bucky’s pelvis with every stroke.

 

Decades of nothing, interspersed with blinding, searing pain - the sudden onslaught of pleasure this intense has his body teetering on the edge. Much, much more quickly than he knows to expect. “S-stop.” And just like that Steve pulls himself upright, alarm in his eyes.

 

“I’m gonna...I don’t want to be done. Not yet,” he stammers out.

 

Steve gets it. “It’s okay. Can you...do something for me?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

He smiles, small and tentative, as he takes Bucky’s flesh hand in his own. “Like this.” And oh, fuck, his cock is so hard it hurts. He stares, enthralled, as two of his fingers disappear into Steve’s mouth.

 

When he releases them, they’re shiny-slick in the moonlight. Steve guides his hand down, down, down, between his legs and under where his balls are tight against his body. Steve’s knees are spread wide, straddling Bucky’s hips. He starts a little when Bucky’s fingertips brush against his hole.

 

“Is this okay?” Bucky asks tentatively.

 

Steve nods. “Push them inside.”

 

He breaches the snug ring of muscle, and Steve whimpers. “It’s okay,” he urges. “Keep going. It’s just…it’s been awhile.”

 

Bucky decides in that moment that he could spend the rest of his life watching Steve’s perfect face twist in pleasure. One finger slides to the hilt and Steve’s grimace nearly pushes Bucky over the edge right there. He adds another. Steve moans like a bitch in heat. It’s just this side of too much for Bucky and he never wants to stop.

 

“I’m gonna...” And Steve rolls over onto his stomach, pulling his knees up under his hips. He’s so exposed like this. Bucky can’t help himself – he leans down and licks a wide stripe from his balls over his asshole.

 

“Holy fuck!” Steve shouts. “Please – Bucky – please just fuck me, it’s been so fucking long, please-“

 

Bucky inches forward on his knees, his metal hand cradling Steve’s hip and the other wrapped around the base of his dick. He aligns the tip with where Steve is ready for him, and slowly pushes forward.

 

It’s as good as he remembers and so, so much better. Bucky’s eyes flutter closed, head tilting back as he sinks himself to the hilt.

 

Bucky glances down to where the sheets are bunched, gripped tightly between Steve’s powerful fingers. Tension radiates from him in waves. He bottoms out inside his asshole and Steve sobs brokenly. “God, it hurts,” he gasps. “It hurts so fucking bad.”

 

“Do you want me to stop?” Please don’t say yes.

 

“Fuck no.” He grabs Bucky’s flank for emphasis. “Don’t you dare.” Something possessive flares up in Bucky’s chest as he snaps his hips forward. He wants it to hurt. He wants Steve to feel him every time he moves, remember that he was here.

 

“I missed you so much.” He’s muttering, he can’t tell if Steve’s aware or not of the painful things falling from his lips. “Missed you so, so much. Wanted you so bad it almost killed me. God, you feel so fucking good, Bucky, don’t stop.”

 

A fissure in his chest, it splits him open like a fault line, and Bucky knows now that he wouldn’t ever have been able to stay away. He was always meant to end up here.

 

“I dreamed about you,” he confesses quietly. “Over and over.” He drives himself in, stills for a moment. “And now I know why.”

 

His pace ramps up fast until he’s slamming himself balls-deep into Steve on every thrust. Sweat trickles down his temples, forming slick rivulets down the cut of his abs. He barely notices. He only sees the perfect V of Steve’s broad shoulders as they taper down to a chiseled waist, slender hips. Bucky’s fingers, metal and flesh, dig into the smooth skin of his pelvis with bruising force.

 

One hand snakes beneath Steve’s trembling form, seeks out where he’s rock-hard and leaking. “Oh, God. I can’t hold on anymore, Buck, I-” he whimpers, wrecked. “Please.”

 

Bucky jerks him faster, times them with his strokes in and out of Steve’s tight heat. “Let go,” he says softly. “For me.”

 

Moments later, Steve lets out an anguished cry and pulses, shooting thick streams of come into Bucky’s fist and streaking the bedspread. It’s the last straw for Bucky, and he finally sheaths himself inside Steve, pumping him full until it’s oozing out around his cock.

 

They collapse onto the rumpled sheets together, mindless and sated. An hour passes, or maybe it was a few minutes.

 

Bucky, silent and panther-like, slips out of bed and starts gathering his scattered clothing. Steve’s eyes track him around the room. “You know,” he begins after several long, heavy moments, “if you can’t stay...if you can’t, like really can’t, I get it. But you don’t have to do it alone.”

 

He’s facing the window when he hears the solemnity in Steve’s gravelly voice. He pauses with his shirt half-over his head and turns around. “You said I had unfinished business.” His pale eyes connect with baby blues, unwavering and steady.

 

Steve nods.

 

“You were right.” From a hidden pocket of his fatigue pants he tosses a folded, thick sheaf of papers. Faded and soft, veined with scraggly red lines.

 

Steve studies them with a rueful smirk. “Always wanted to visit Rio.” He glances up at Bucky just as a t-shirt hits him square in the face, followed by a duffel bag and a pair of jeans.

 

He can’t quite read the expression on Bucky. Maybe it’s the moonlight. Maybe it’s the messy bedhead hiding the quirk of his eyebrows or the corner of his lips. But he thinks he might be smiling.

**Author's Note:**

> Come follow me on tumblr for bad jokes and all the marvel/stucky/clintasha squeeing you can handle. we-dont-need-pants.tumblr.com


End file.
